Hyperion's Song of Destiny
 

 

Holy spirits, you walk up there
    in the light, on soft earth.
            Shining god-like breezes
                  touch upon you gently,
                         as a woman's fingers
                               play music on holy strings.
 

Like sleeping infants the gods
      breathe without any plan;
        the spirit flourishes continually
            in them, chastely kept,
                         as in a small bud,
                                and their holy eyes
                                       look out in still
                                              eternal clearness.

 
A place to rest
    isn't given to us.
          Suffering humans
                decline and blindly fall
                       from one hour to the next,
                              like water thrown
                                    from cliff to cliff,
                                         year after year,
                                               down into the Unknown.

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